


By Thy Own Hand

by Singerdiva01



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:18:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3225500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singerdiva01/pseuds/Singerdiva01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows the minute she walks in the door the Commander just got himself off. Hard. Just the thought of how he must have looked and sounded while doing it has her in need of her own release.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Thy Own Hand

I’ve always been the kind of woman who thinks there’s something beautiful about a man who just got off hard by his own hand. 

I don’t know Bill Adama well but I know men and I can tell the second he opens the door. 

It’s the soft, satisfied look in his eyes that gives him away. His weathered face is relaxed and his movements are loose and, even if that didn’t give him away, I’d know by the way he surreptitiously adjusts himself when he turns his back to lead me to the couch. For just a second I begrudge him the freedom to take a few moments in between meetings to relieve some of the tension. Then he turns and smiles that benevolent, enigmatic smile and I know without a doubt he got off before this particular meeting for a reason. 

I disguise my giggle as a cough and am grateful when he offers to fetch me a glass of water so I have time to will the blush from my face. The leather of his couch is soft and warm under my fingertips and I can’t help but wonder if he did it here. 

Predictably, that line of thinking doesn’t help with the redness on my cheeks. By the time he returns my traitorous brain has already conjured up the image of him sitting right in this very spot, pants around his ankles, legs splayed, cock in hand. I chance a look at the bulge in his pants as he walks toward me and decide he’s probably short but wide. When he presses the glass into my hand his skin is dark in contrast to mine and I mentally color his member a shade darker against the pink of his palms. I force myself to focus when he sits down beside me and opens up a file. I’m already a little dizzy, damn chamalla, from the blood rushing to parts that have been dormant for far too long and I have to press back a shiver when his wool clad knee brushes against the bare skin of my leg.

He starts talking and I dutifully pay attention. His gravelly baritone was the only thing I liked about this man at first and it’s not even the first time I’ve thought Bill Adama must be the only man in the worlds who can make a fuel report sound like an erotic novel. One of the pages falls out of the file and he groans when he bends down to pick it up. 

As hard as I try, I can’t help adding audio to the pornographic movie my brain seems to determined to make. He’s a groaner, I know it as surely as I know he was jerking himself right before I came in. I like vocal men, have always gotten turned on by the way their grunts get more urgent the closer they get, and I can feel the wetness starting to pool between my thighs. 

I uncross my legs, quickly cross them back, and he looks. Our eyes meet and he doesn’t seem repentant at all. 

Thank Gods the comm rings because if it hadn’t I might have done something stupid like jump the Commander of my fleet right there on his couch. I don’t even have time to think too much on that before he’s back, explaining he’s needed in CIC, he shouldn’t be long, I should make myself at home while I wait. 

I tell myself I’m thinking of the fleet when I lock myself in his head, pull down my skirt, and put my hand between my legs. It just won’t do to have the president too distracted to focus on fuel reports. I close my eyes and mentally press replay on my earlier fantasy. This time I get into his brain, hear him rationalizing it won’t do for the Commander to be too distracted to focus on fuel reports. 

He’s probably efficient and I don’t have a lot of time so I fast forward to him stroking hard, his head thrown back against the back of the couch. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open slightly and he’s grunting in time to the motion of his hand. I haven’t come this way in years but something, maybe the chamalla or the ridiculousness of this whole situation, has me moaning right along with him. I have to shift a bit to put a finger inside and I’m surprised how close I am so fast. 

I command brain Bill to hurry it along and he obeys, his grunts matching the speed of my fingers. I come, hard, when he groans my name and spills into his hand. 

It takes a minute to catch my breath and I feel ridiculous when I open my eyes and realize I’ve just used my military commander as a sex toy in his own frakking bathroom. I remind myself as I replace my skirt and wash my hands that I simply did what had to be done, for the sake of the fleet and those fuel reports. 

I hear the hatch open and the Commander calling me, my title not my name, and I chance a quick look in the small mirror. I find myself hoping, against my better judgment, that Bill Adama’s the kind of man who thinks there’s something beautiful about a woman who’s just gotten off by her own hand.


End file.
